Ashley Logan

To my last love – there was a before. When in the shallow of the forest I dreamed of emerald and jade landing upon my tongue as it hungered for the canopy above, the taste of endurance. Craving, this shelter of olive survival. My hands were covered in honeydew as they reached for the tether of you. We rested our heads on beds of moss, ivy brushing my nape, and I felt a wild healing begin to tear through the fallowed kudzu – this revived breath of an inner child who lost faith in the hardened soil. Grazing your fingers with an expelled breeze that tickled chartreuse blades of grass, I swallowed the heartbeat of the earth and felt as it settled deep in the home I had once thought neglected. The ands of life meet us now as we tell the ancient trees our story with ferns gathering in our lungs, a sprout of religion revealed in carefully cupped hands. My last love – whispers of our worship will feed the roots of the phthalo woods and build sanctuaries for the wanderers. In the after, the wild will be found in our bones.